


Playing Patient

by ViennaWarren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Sick Mycroft, Sickfic, h/c, sick!Mycroft, worried!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViennaWarren/pseuds/ViennaWarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“God, what is that?” Anthea gasped, pointing at the red pattern across his chest. Sherlock blinked with an eerie sense of calm about him. “An apparent, red rash. Fever. Swollen joints. My brother has a case of rheumatic fever. Again.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello guys! This is my new story. It's going to be a sick!Mycroft fic with Sherlock taking care of him; it was based off an awesome prompt I got from LitaJ (I hope I got the bonus points for BAMF!Anthea). Comments are appreciated. I hope you guys have a fantastic night! :)
> 
> ~VW
> 
> ***Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of "Sherlock". All characters and references belong to the producers, creaters and writers of the television show. Thank you!

Mycroft Holmes was furiously typing a report for a conference he was to attend that coming Tuesday. He sighed and paused, rubbing his wrist lightly. It pained him but for what reason, he didn’t know. He had asked one of his private doctors about it earlier, but he’d dismissed it easily.

“Probably just a beginnings of some arthritis. Surely nothing to worry about, Mister Holmes. I’d prescribe a few tablets of paracetamol.” Doctor Whittler assured him.

Mycroft shook his head. “You must know I’m not a fan of medications, Doctor.”

“Yes, but if it pains so much as to affect your work…” the doctor trailed off, letting the other man think for himself.

“Yes, right. Well, thank you.”

And that was that. The appointment was short lived, unlike his wrist pain. Of course, Doctor Whittler was correct; even typing hurt. It was most inconvenient, enough that he actually considered taking the medicine. On top of this, his head had started to hurt. Fantastic.

“Mister Holmes?”

“Ah, Anthea.”

Anthea smiled pleasantly, then frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Mycroft returned the smile, his looking a little more deflated than hers.

She placed her arms on her hips and gave him a look. “Mycroft. I’ve been working for you for more than a few years. I’ve the ability to see when something’s bothering you.”

“Did you want something?” he asked flatly.

“Yes. Mister Gad was wondering if your financial report is finished.”

Mycroft stared at his obviously uncompleted paper. “Er, no. It’s not. Quite.”

“Well, it needs to be soon. You know the meeting is—”

“Next Tuesday, yes, I’m aware.”

“I guess you’ll be fine without me for a while?” she mentioned, a certain coldness to her voice.

He pursed his lips. “I suppose, however, I don’t recall giving you the day off.”

“Family emergency.” Anthea retorted, sending a quick text on her Blackberry. “Feel better soon.” She called, turning on her heel.

“Feel better…? I’m not ill!” he shouted.

Sherlock abruptly stopped playing his piece.

“Why’d you stop?” John mumbled sleepily. He was laying on the couch, an open magazine on his chest. He hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep, Sherlock had deducted, and just like he’d predicted, the sound of his violin soothed John to an almost-sleep.

Now, Sherlock was staring at his mobile.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was still thick with sleep.

“Er, text from Anthea.”

“Anthea…?”

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t remember her, John.”

“I  _don’t_.” He retorted, an edge in his tone.

“The woman you… fancied? Mycroft sent her to kidnap you a while ago.”

“Oh, yeah. Her… why’s she texting you?”

Sherlock’s frown was nearly audible. “She says something’s the matter with Mycroft.”

“The matter? He’s been hurt?” John pushed himself into a seated position and rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, what did she say exactly?”

“ _’Your brother is acting like an arse. Something’s up.’_ ”

John tried to keep from laughing. “Are they a thing?”

“If by ‘thing’ you mean ‘couple’, no. Not to my knowledge.”

John grinned. “Please tell me you can at least deduce  _that_.”

Sherlock was confused. “Deduce what?”

“That woman, Anthea, or whatever her actual name is, she likes Mycroft.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock scoffed. “He _is_ her employer.”

“No, you—I mean to say I think she’s in love with him.”

Sherlock stared blankly at his friend. “You can’t be serious.” He appeared worried, concerned even.

John nodded slowly. “I think so… are you okay mate?” It almost looked as if the detective was going to cry. “Sherlock?”

Instead, he did quite the opposite. He burst into a fit of giggles. “Oh, John! This is fantastic! Better than a case, nearly. I can hold this over his head for _years_.” Sherlock emphasised with a final leap off platform he was standing on. “Perfect, let’s go pay him a visit.”

“Right now?”

Mycroft re-read his report carefully. He made some minor edits and winced as he did so, then wiped his brow. He was sweating and found the room itself to be unbearably hot. It hadn’t even been a month since Mycroft had gotten rid of that horrid case of strep throat. Now Anthea was right about him being ill? Oh, how he hated being proved wrong. At least she wasn’t present now…

Mycroft saved his document while loosening his mint-coloured tie, then removed his jacket.

As he was unbuttoning his dress shirt, Mycroft noticed something extremely strange. An angry red rash had appeared on his normally pale chest. He traced the peculiar pattern with his fingertips, cursing to himself. He hadn’t seen this in a long time.

Suddenly, Sherlock burst into the room, giving his younger brother only seconds to close his open shirt. “Sh-Sherlock!” he stammered, apparently surprised.

Sherlock grinned. “You never told me you were in love.”

John trailed in behind him like a loyal puppy. “Hello, Mycroft.”

“How did you even get in here?” Mycroft asked Sherlock, annoyance dripping from his voice.

Anthea strode in the office, smiling. “I let them in.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her. “Why ever would you do such a horrid thing?”

Sherlock feigned hurt. “Oh, truly?”

“You’re obviously ill or injured. Something is wrong with you.” she replied, arms akimbo.

Unknown to all others, John had been making deductions of his own the whole time. Mycroft’s defensive attitude, his tie and jacket discarded on the back of his chair, the sweat lining his brow and the hint of a rash peeking out from his loose shirt… it all made sense.

John cleared his throat. “Mycroft, is that a rash on your—”

“No.” Mycroft answered quickly.

Sherlock squinted. “Yes, clearly there’s a… Oh. Oh.” he repeated. “Mycroft, you don’t…? Have you even had…?”

“Nothing’s the matter with me! I’ve a conference with three world dignitaries in a matter of days, so if you all would kindly be on your way…”

John shook his head. “No, I think we’ll have to stay here actually. I will, anyway.” He walked over to the man and unbuttoned the rest of his shirt.

“John Watson!” Mycroft spat. “It’s none of your business what’s under my—”

“God, what is that?” Anthea gasped, pointing at the red pattern across his chest.

Sherlock blinked with an eerie sense of calm about him. “An apparent, red rash. Fever. Swollen joints. My brother has a case of rheumatic fever. Again.”


	2. What Umbrella?

Sherlock Holmes’ mind raced as the cab drove him, John and Mycroft. It had been so many years since his brother had even been ill with rheumatic fever. Sherlock glanced out the window as the cab sped past block after block. The shops melted into one another and Sherlock was nine years old again.

_Mycroft cried out in pain as his father carried him onto the couch. Sherlock was watching from the other side of the room, silent and observant. He could tell his older brother was in pain, that was plain as day. Why though, he wasn’t sure._

_“What hurts, sweetheart?” Mrs. Holmes asked gently, sweeping back Mycroft’s bangs from his sweating brow. “Oh, you’re burning with fever!”_

_“My knees, Mother. And my ankles.”_

_It was strange seeing Mycroft in this way. He was eleven, a big kid; no illness ever held him down in such a way. Sherlock got a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he watched Mycroft wince or groan. It was most unpleasant and it certainly confused him. Why was he hurting when it was really his brother who was truly in pain? It was a puzzle Sherlock had yet to solve and it bothered him greatly._

_“I propose we take him to the hospital.” Father announced, flipping through the pages of an address book._

_Their mother nodded. “I think so.” She rubbed her eldest son’s hand. “You know Auntie Bessie sent you some Jelly Babies.”_

_Mycroft smiled for her sake. “Oh, how nice.”_

_“I’ve made an appointment with a doctor tomorrow morning.” Mr. Holmes informed his sick son and sat down in an armchair next to him._

_In the nighttime, however, Mycroft’s fever spiked. He and Sherlock shared a bedroom and he awoke his little brother with his incoherent mumbling._

_Sherlock blinked himself awake, listening to Mycroft toss and turn while speaking in some sort of haze. Abruptly, he began shouting at the ceiling fan._

_“Leave me alone! Stop it!” Mycroft yelled, scrambling back into the bed’s headboard. “Quit that!”_

_Sherlock peeked at him. Truth be told, he was a bit frightened. “Mycroft?”_

_Mycroft whipped his head to the side and stared, wide-eyed, at Sherlock. “Get them away from me!”_

_“Who?”_

_“The faces in the ceiling fan!”_

_“What?” Sherlock was utterly confused. He watched the blades of the fan spin ‘round and ‘round but saw no faces of any kind. “I don’t see any—”_

_Before Mycroft could scream again, their parents nearly took down the door. “Boys!”_

_“Mummy, it’s Mycroft!” Sherlock squeaked, meaning to sound older than it came out._

_“Get them away!” his older brother was still shouting._

_“Put your shoes on Sherlock, we’re taking him to the doctor right now.” Mr. Holmes instructed, scooping up Mycroft, all skin and bones, rather easily._

_“Ow!” Mycroft yelped. “Ow…”_

_There was that awful feeling! Deep inside Sherlock, something twisted and flipped. Such a horrid feeling it was. Sherlock covered his ears with his hands so he wouldn’t have hear his brother crying._

_“Sherlock!” Mrs. Holmes tugged her child’s hands from his ears. “Please put on your shoes. Sherlock! Sherlock!”_

“Sherlock!” John was shaking his friend, who was lost in a daydream, staring outside the cab window.

The detective started as if rudely woken from a dream. “Hmm? Were you saying something?”

“I was only trying to get your attention for the past five minutes.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh, right. Yes?”

John continued patiently. “As I was saying, where exactly did you want to go? Is Mycroft fine taking care of himself?”

“Yes!” Mycroft piped up weakly. “I’m fine.”

“He’s not.” Sherlock interjected. “221B Baker Street.” he informed the cabbie.

“You’ve got it.” The driver took a right turn.

“Sherlock, I’m a grown man! I can care for myself!”

“I’m going to have to side with Sherlock here. Sorry, Mycroft. You’re lucky we’re not driving you to a hospital somewhere. It’d be too dangerous anyway, I suppose.”

“Damn it.” Mycroft muttered, sounding very out of it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question. “What is it?”

“I forgot my umbrella at the office.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, guys! I'll be on a retreat this weekend so I will not be able to post again until Sunday night or Monday... sorry for the inconvenience! Hope you guys have a great weekend! :)


	3. Knees and Ankles

As the cab pulled over to the side of the street in front of his and Sherlock’s flat, John thought they’d have to carry Mycroft inside. However, as soon as the vehicle stopped, Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open.

“I said to take me to my estate!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It was too far and I didn’t have the money.”

“Um, no, actually, we just figured it’d be best to keep an eye on you here at home.” John corrected, ignoring Sherlock’s sarcasm.

“Hmmph.” Mycroft wrestled with the door handle before finally getting it open.

“Can you walk?” John asked, clambering out of the small car.

“He can, but it pains him.” Sherlock answered for his brother. “It’s in his knees and ankles.”

* * *

As they all trekked up the stairs, Mycroft’s thoughts wandered. ‘ _It’s in his knees and ankles_ ,’ Sherlock had said. But Sherlock couldn’t remember when Mycroft had first had it? Surely, he didn’t recall  _every_ memory.

The three walked into the flat and Mycroft nearly collapsed onto the couch.

“Do you feel at all hot?” John inquired, placing his hand on the man’s forehead. “Wow. Okay. Sherlock, where’s the—”

“Here.” Sherlock was always one step ahead of him, holding out the thermometer.

“Perfect, thanks.” John stuck the thermometer under Mycroft’s tongue as the grown man pouted.

“Thith ith’n nethethary.”

* * *

_“When an object is lodged under the tongue, speech is directly affected.” A tiny Sherlock was standing as tall as he could, being nine years old. Mycroft glared at him._

_“Yes, thehnk yo’, Sher’k.” Mycroft was glaring at him from the couch._

_“Well, I’m just saying. Frankly, you sound absolutely—”_

_The doctor entered the room and removed the thermometer from Mycroft’s mouth. He scribbled a few notes on his clipboard. “We’re going to have to take some B-L-O-O-D.” The man spelled to the Holmes’ mother. Sherlock rolled his eyes and Mycroft was incredulous._

_“You realise we both speak English?” Mycroft asked, trying to sit up._

_“Myc,” his mother interjected, horrified, “manners!”_

_The doctor laughed it off. “I just meant we’re going to need to do a blood test.”_

_Mrs. Holmes nodded. “Okay, that’s fine.”_

_Sherlock stared at his brother, whose mouth was in a thin line. He stared at his older brother and carefully studied his face. He was definitely nervous, but trying to conceal it._

_“Fine.”_

_“Would you like to ride in a wheelchair or can you walk?”_

_Mycroft hesitated._

_“Wheelchair it is, then.”_


	4. K-I-S-S-I-N-G

“Just because you’re the British government doesn’t mean you’re completely off the hook. You still need to go to the hospital so they can monitor your heart and make sure there’s not any damage. We’ve made you an appointment at a safehouse.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Yes, it’s necessary.” Sherlock got the words out of his mouth faster than Mycroft.

“Sherlock’s right. Honestly, you’re lucky you have us. I mean, what did your other doctor even tell you?”

“Arthritis.”

Sherlock laughed, as if the situation were funny.

He didn’t take note of any of the  _other_ symptoms?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No.”

“How is he still your doctor?”

“Anthea fired him.”

Sherlock stifled a fit of laughter behind his fist.

Mycroft glared at him. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing, n-nothing.” He was still trying very hard not to break into giggles and it was obvious.

“ _Sherlock_!”

“Is it… is it because she loves you?”

Mycroft stared at the ceiling. “No, she does not love me.”

“Are you p-positive?”

“For god’s sake! We’re not in love!”

“I never said anything about  _you_ , just Anthea, which suggests that your subconscious mind actually considers yourself—”

“Shut up!” John and Mycroft spoke together and Sherlock crossed his arms, annoyed.

“I’d love to let you ladies continue bickering but Mycroft’s got an appointment in an hour and it’s a bit of a drive.”

“Right. Can you, er, walk?” Sherlock was staring at his brother expectantly.

Mycroft swung his legs over the side of the couch and winced. “I really wish I hadn’t forgotten that  _damn_ umbrella.”

“Why? So you could use it as a crutch?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock!”

“Girls!” John was forced to shout above their pointless arguing. “Come on, let’s go! Mycroft, I think I still have that cane I used to use.”

* * *

“Ooh. I say, aging is one of the worst curses that has been trusted upon humanity.”

John extended a hand to Mycroft as he clambered out of the cab. “I don’t think it’s the aging part that’s affecting you… that might be your, oh, I dunno, illness?”

“Save it John. My brother,” Sherlock gave Mycroft a false, loving look as he too climbed out of the car, “likes to be overly dramatic when he’s ill. It’s a quirk of his.”

“You’re one to talk of quirks.  _Honestly_.”

“Alright!” John clapped his hands together. “Let’s get you signed in. This way.”

Mycroft hobbled behind John and Sherlock followed close behind. “I am never babysitting for these two again,” John thought to himself as he held open the door for the Homes brothers.

“Mycroft.” Anthea was sitting in the waiting room, an umbrella propped up against her chair.

“Anthea,” Mycroft said, immediately trying to straighten his posture, “what are you doing here?”

She smirked. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He sat down in the seat next to her, waving off a helping hand from John. “What…?”

“Your umbrella, perhaps?” Sherlock’s face was buried in a magazine.

“Ah, right. Well, thank you for bringing it.”

Anthea smiled warmly. “You’re welcome.”

The two sat in silence for a while until the elder Holmes spoke up. “You know, you don’t have to wait here.”

“Actually, I do.” she responded. “Have you forgotten about the upcoming meeting? World dignitaries ring a bell?”

“Oh, yes. That should be fine, I expect to be recovered by tomorrow.”

John laughed out loud. “By tomorrow? Mycroft, surely you’re—”

“Completely serious.” Mycroft finished for him. Anthea gave him a look.

“Don’t pretend to be Superman, Mycroft. It’s okay to cancel. In fact, I figured I’d accompany you during your visit. That way, I could confirm your illness to let the foreigners know not to fly out.”

“Anthea, it won’t be necessary.”

“Mister Holmes?” a petite nurse called out into the waiting room.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” She got up and held her arm out, expecting Mycroft to take it.

Sherlock gave John a knowing look and tried to keep himself from laughing.

Swallowing his pride, Mycroft indeed did take her arm. “Anthea, this isn’t professional.”

“It’s completely professional, as well as practical.”


	5. Blood Test

“From the description of your symptoms, I can’t say for sure what it is exactly.”

Mycroft exhaled in slight frustration. “Okay, I’m assuming a few tests will necessary?”

“Quite right, Mister Holmes. Now, if you wouldn’t mind…”

“I can tell you right now that my brother has a case of rheumatic fever.” Sherlock interjected.

The doctor pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take the word of a civilian with a lack of a medical degree.”

Sherlock took a step forward. “I’ll have  _you_ know that I—”

“Sherlock,” John whispered through clenched teeth, “let the nice man do his job.”

Anthea, who was still at Mycroft’s side, was texting on her Blackberry. “What kinds of tests?”

“Well, we’ll have to start with a blood test, from which we’ll be able to confirm if it is or isn’t rheumatic fever.”

“It is.”

“Sherlock!” John tugged at his friend’s wrist. “Why don’t we step outside for some water, hmm?”

* * *

Now alone with the doctor, Anthea began asking questions, much to Mycroft’s displeasure.

“So,” she started, typing a final text, “what kind of recovery time are we talking about if he does have rheumatic fever?”

“Well, to be honest, even if he doesn’t have the illness, he shouldn’t be working. The fever’s still at it, so Mister Holmes needs to be taking some leave off work. I’d say one to two weeks.”

Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella.

“One to two weeks… so this is if he  _does_ in fact have it?”

“Correct.”

“Got it.” She began furiously typing on her phone’s small screen.

“Anthea, don’t do anything rash.” Mycroft muttered, carefully getting off the doctor’s examining table. “Where can I take the blood test?”

“Right, you’d rather do it today than later?”

“Today’s good.” Mycroft told him.

The doctor nodded. “If you’d follow me.”

* * *

“Ooh, where are we off too?” Sherlock asked with mock enthusiasm as they all trailed behind the doctor.

“Blood test.” Anthea replied, not looking up from her mobile.

“Right. You doing okay, Mycroft?”

“Fine, John.”

The awkward small talk ceased there, until they arrived at the testing room. Mycroft’s stomach flipped as he recalled what it was like for him as a child. It was strange, having these anxious feelings about getting blood drawn when he’d been through so much worse.

“Alright, have a seat for me here.” The man gestured to the only chair in the room and Mycroft obliged. “Shouldn’t take too long now.” he added as a nurse cleaned the elder brother’s arm with an antiseptic wipe. Sherlock watched intently as she stuck his brother’s arm.

* * *

_“Oh, so brave you are!” Mrs. Holmes commented, squeezing her elder son’s hand. Mycroft resisted the urge to snatch it away._

_Sherlock watched the red liquid coursing through the plastic tubes, wide-eyed. “Look at all the blood.” he breathed._

_“You planning on being a doctor someday?” the nurse asked him politely._

_He shook his head. “No.”_

_“Oh.” she said, not quite sure how to reply._

* * *

“Alright, you’re all done.” The nurse carefully removed the needle from Mycroft’s arm and placed a Hello Kitty plaster over the injection mark. Seeing Mycroft’s frown, she laughed.

“Sorry, we’re all out of regular.”

“Quite alright.” Mycroft said with a tight smile. “I’m free to go?”

“Yes,” the doctor answered, “and I’ll have your results in either tomorrow or the day after.”

“Perfect.” John replied. “And until then?”

“Bed rest and paracetamol. Take it easy.” The doctor advised as he opened the door for the group. “Have a good day.”


	6. She Cannot Be Real

Taking it easy was not one of Mycroft’s strong points.

“Mycroft, I’m serious. Sherlock and I are going to the store to get a few things. You’d better still be in bed when we get back.” John pointed a finger accusingly at Mycroft and then yelled into the other room. “Sherlock! Let’s go!”

“I don’t understand why I  _have_ to go. Can’t you do the shopping on your own?”

“All you do is stay in the house. You need to get out. Now.”

Sherlock emerged, looking quite unhappy.

“That’s better. We’ll see you later.” John said to Mycroft, and shut the door on his way out.

Mycroft inhaled, holding his breath, and pushed himself off the bed. He couldn’t lay around and do nothing, it just wasn’t going to happen.

He made the strenuous trek across the living room and retrieved his laptop from the counter. Mycroft’s phone buzzed in his trousers’ pocket.

Mycroft let out a soft groan while he melted into the sofa. His phone vibrated once more and then again. Glancing at it, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Anthea. Of course.

_I’ve rescheduled your meeting for next month. –AN_

_Did you need me to bring you anything? –AN_

_Mycroft Holmes, quit moving about and sit down. The doctor prescribed rest, remember? –AN_

Mycroft frowned slightly though his stomach flipped a bit. He sent her a text in reply.

**How did you know I wasn’t in bed? Have you bugged my brother’s flat? –MH**

_Actually, you bugged your own brother’s flat a few years ago and I’ve just been keeping up with it. –AN_

**Well, no, I don’t need anything.** Mycroft hesitated before adding another sentence.  **Thanks for asking. –MH**

Truth be told, Mycroft had felt progressively worse as the morning went on. The soreness has moved to his elbows and neck and he was sweating. Suddenly, his shirt was much too tight for him and his fingers scrambled to undo the buttons that were confining him.

A sigh escaped his lips as his shirt slipped onto the carpet. Ugh, but he still felt so hot!  _Might as well,_ he told himself, kicking his trousers to the floor. He shivered and fell into a fevered sleep.

* * *

_Mycroft was naked in the woods. He was searching frantically for something, but for what, he couldn’t recall. All he could remember was that it was important._

_“Mycroft!” A feminine voice called out to him and he turned around to see who it was._

_“Anthea?” He stared at her and she stared back._

_“You’re… not dressed.”_

_Mycroft’s mouth moved silentely before he realised he wasn’t making any sound. “I—er, what?”_

_“Your clothes, Mycroft, where are they?”_

_“My…? Shit!” His clothes, where were his clothes? CLOTHES! “I, um…”_

_“Here.” Anthea tossed him his umbrella, which he gratefully accepted. Mycroft opened the umbrella and shielded his lower half with the thing._

_“So….” he began awkwardly._

_“Mycroft…”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Mycroft!”_

_“Yes, what?” Why on Earth was she screaming so loud?_

_“MYCROFT!”_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had thrown the groceries on the nearest table and ran to his brother’s side. “Mycroft!”

John had dropped his bags on the floor. “Mycroft?”

“John, he’s got a fever. A high one, judging by his general complexion and the amount of perspiration.” Sherlock’s hand rested on his brother’s forehead.

John gently eased past Sherlock and felt the man’s temperature for himself. “Sherlock, get me a cool cloth.” he instructed. “Mycroft? Can you hear me?”

Mycroft moaned a bit and opened his eyes. “Anthea?”

“Er, no, it’s John.”

“Where’s…. where’s…?” He was obviously confused. Mycroft attempted to sit up but John gently pushed him back down.

“No, you need to lay down. Sherlock, where’s that cloth?”

“Here, it’s here.” Sherlock handed the damp washcloth over and John placed it on the sick man’s head.

“What hurts?” John inquired, not even realising Mycroft was half-naked.

“Er, John? I think a blanket would be a faster approach to saving my brother’s modesty than trying to put his trousers back on.”

“Put his…? Oh yes, right. Okay.”

“My elbows.” Mycroft mumbled, shivering a little.

“I’ll get you some paracetamol.” John promised, leaving Mycroft’s side for a second.

A knock at the door startled John, who promptly dropped the painkillers on the floor. “Sherlock, could you grab the door?”

Sherlock did so and wasn’t very surprised to see Anthea.

“Anthea, hello. I  don’t know that this is the best time—” Sherlock started, but his face changed when he realised she had something of importance to say.

“Guess who has rheumatic fever? I just got off the phone with Mycroft’s doctor.”

“Come on in, Anthea!” John called from the living room. She passed Sherlock and swallowed hard.

“Is he okay? He doesn’t look very well.” she commented.

John nodded. “His fever’s risen, but he’ll be alright.”

“Good. I went ahead and scheduled his heart scans for Wednesday.”

“Without consulting me?” Sherlock snapped, glaring at her.

“I’m sorry, would you have picked a different day?”

His face transformed completely. “No actually, that’s what I would’ve gone with.”

Anthea rolled her eyes. “Oh, okay.”

“Mycroft, I want you to swallow this pill, alright? It’ll make you feel better.” John ordered, pressing the pill into his hand.

“Mmm… water?” he asked hoarsely.

“Got it.” Anthea was back in an instant, her long, red fingernails  _tap, tap, tapping_  against the crystal glass. Mycroft stared at them, transfixed.

“John, when did you paint your nails?” he asked groggily. Sherlock smiled a bit.

“It’s me, Anthea.” the woman said, handing the water to Mycroft.

“I thought you said you were John.”

“Just drink.” Sherlock advised.

Mycroft did sip the water and swallow the pill. He turned on his side and was again asleep, drifting off to who knows where.

“Well, I suppose I’m off then.” Anthea announced, turning on her heel to leave.

Sherlock grinned to himself, then turned to her. “It’d be more practical for you to stay here, especially if you’re going to keep ‘dropping in’.”

John gaped at the prospect but Anthea shrugged. “I work for him, so if he needs me, I guess I could stay.”

“Strictly professional.” Sherlock confirmed, raising his eyebrows.

“Of course.” she snapped, looked aggravated. “What else?”


	7. Tea and Scones to Start the Day Right

Anthea stayed at John and Sherlock’s flat for two nights. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to give up his nice, warm bed, so John generously re-made his bed for Anthea and she slept there. John slept in a recliner, watching over Mycroft because that was his duty as a doctor.

On the third day, Sherlock woke to the sound of sizzling bacon. He stumbled out of bed, threw on a cream coloured robe and staggered into the kitchen, still rubbing his eyes.

“Anthea?”

Anthea had her brown hair tied up in a loose pony and was wearing an oversized t-shirt. “Good morning.”

“Um, morning. What’re you cooking?”

She stepped back from the bacon and opened the oven. “Scones and bacon. There’s tea ready.”

“Why?”

Anthea stared at him for a second, then laughed light-heartedly. “Because I’m hungry. I figured Mycroft would want a big breakfast before his appointment today.”

Sherlock stirred his tea and collapsed into a kitchen chair. “Mycroft hates expensive breakfasts.”

“I know that, I just think it’d be good for him.”

“You’re right.”

* * *

 

John was the next to wake up, soon followed by Mycroft himself.

“Wow, I didn’t know you could cook!” John commented, smiling. “I love scones.”

Even Mycroft looked impressed. He raised an eyebrow curiously. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“My mum was big in the kitchen. She loved cooking and we always used my great-grandmother’s recipes.” she replied, carefully placing some bacon on a plate. “Tea’s in the kettle.”

Both Mycroft and John helped themselves to a cuppa and joined Sherlock at the table. Soon enough, the oven went off and John got up to help.

Following his example, Sherlock set the table, complete with forks and knives and plates.

“Do you… need any help?” Mycroft asked.

“Nope.” Sherlock responded, putting the platter of bacon in the middle of the table.

“Watch out, they’re hot.” John added the tray of scones to the table and everyone sat down to eat.

* * *

 

“I’m off to get dressed.” John announced, putting his plate in the sink and filling it with water.   
“As am I.” Sherlock got up, leaving his plate on the table.

John sighed heavily, taking Sherlock’s plate and putting it in the sink with his. “Mycroft,” he said, “has Sherlock ever cleaned up after himself?”

Mycroft smirked. “It depends what kind of mess you’re referring to.”

John shook his head. “Anyway, how’s the pain today?”

“Fine.”

“Mycroft,” Anthea cut in, “elaborate.”

“It’s in my wrists.”

“Won’t be for long.” John assured him. “We’ll get you checked out and hopefully have a prescription or two.”

Mycroft nodded, placing his hands in his lap. “Okay.”

* * *

 

Everyone piled into the cab, Sherlock sitting by the window (“I want the window seat Mycroft, you  _know_ I hate sitting in the middle!”), followed by John, Mycroft, then Anthea.

“Hospital, please.” John told the cabbie, glad that it was local.

Mycroft’s eye twitched as he felt something, a hand, on his leg. Anthea was looking distractedly out the window and didn’t even realise her hand was currently resting on Mycroft’s thigh. It made him feel rather uncomfortable and he blushed, swallowing hard and trying not to bring attention to himself.

“Mister Holmes?” a clipboard-wielding doctor called out into the waiting room.

“Yes, that’s me.” Mycroft answered the man.

“Right this way.”

Again, all five of them trailed behind the doctor as he led them into an examining room. “So, Miss Jules is just going to take your temperature, blood pressure and weight measurements, then I’ll go ahead a do an ultra-sound scan.”

“An ultra-sound?” Anthea inquired. “Isn’t that for pregnant women?”

The doctor nodded. “Typically, yes. But in this case, I’ll do an ultra-sound on Mister Holmes’ heart, so it can be more easily seen, on the screen over here.” He gestured across the room.

The nurse took Mycroft’s blood pressure as a thermometer as hanging out of his mouth.

“I’m going to get some water.” Sherlock announced, leaving the room abruptly.

John shrugged. “You know what room number this is right?” But Sherlock didn’t reply.

* * *

 

Sherlock sat outside the hospital on a bench, taking a drag. He didn’t like doctors very much and wasn’t a fan of seeing his brother shirtless.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and coughed a little. He stared at the cigarette in between his fingers. God, they were so addicting.

“You okay?”

Sherlock started, the played it off as a shrug. “Fine.” He was surprised he didn’t hear John sneak up behind him. The man sat down next to Sherlock.

“Mycroft’s getting prescribed meds right now.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock mumbled, blowing a series of smoke rings.

“Don’t play that card, I know you don’t care.”

Sherlock hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, he just—wait, he  _didn’t_ care. Right?

Before he could reply, John snatched the cigarette out of Sherlock’s hand and tossed it on the ground, violently crushing it with his heel.

“What the hell did you do that for?!” Sherlock barked, glaring at his friend.

“You’ll thank me later.”

“No, actually, I don’t think I will! In fact, I think it’ll only encourage some act of vengeance.”

“Don’t be a drama queen, Sherlock.”

“I’m not!”

“You  _are_!”

Sherlock folded his arms defensively. “Am not.”


	8. Dreams

It had been weeks since the rheumatic fever incident. Mycroft Holmes was asleep his office, head on his desk and Sherlock watched him from the office's entrance. It was funny seeing him like that, eyes closed, probably drooling on the mouse pad.  _"Hmm,"_  Sherlock thought to himself,  _"looks as if he's having a dream."_

Mycroft snored lightly in his sleep and it sounded as if he actually mumbled something. Sherlock smirked. Definitely a dream.

* * *

_"Oh, Myc, that's wonderful news! You'll be able to go back to school by Wednesday." Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, clapping her hands together._

_Mycroft sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea and munching on a piece of toast, looking glum. "I can hardly wait." he responded, enthusiastically._

_Sherlock grinned behind his cuppa. "That's right, you have to go back to school." His small hands held the cup of tea firmly._

_"Mycroft," their mother scolded playfully, "don't look so disappointed." Arms akimbo, she studied his face. "You excel in all your classes and get perfect marks."_

_"Just because a student makes good marks doesn't mean they enjoy going to school." Mycroft buttered another piece of whole wheat bread._

_Sherlock nodded in agreement. "I don't like going to school either."_

_"Hush, now! See what you've gotten your brother thinking?"_

_Mycroft sighed. "That's not my fault. He does have a brain of his own, I'm fairly certain. Although sometimes I do wonder…"_

* * *

 

It was a nice enough memory for Mycroft, which was most likely why he was dreaming of it. He grunted in his sleep and continued dreaming with Sherlock watching only six feet away.

As his younger brother turned to go, he nearly ran into Anthea.

"Oh, so sorry, Mister Holmes." she apologised, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear.

"Quite alright, Anthea." He murmured.

They stared at each other in silence.

"Did you need something?" he asked, blocking the door.

She nodded. "Um, yes. I was going to inform Mister Holmes that—"

"He's asleep." Sherlock cut her off abruptly.

"He's…?"

"Must've been a long night."

"Hmm… yes, I suppose it was." Anthea blinked.

"Well, I'll come back later." Sherlock grabbed her by the wrist as she turned to go. Anthea's head whipped around and she glanced at his tight grip on her, then back to study his face.

He looked at her calmly. "I know you're in love with my brother."

"Excuse me?" Anthea snapped, trying to break free of his grip.

"I shook your hand a few weeks ago, if you'd recall. That was me being polite and courteous, as well as taking your pulse in a less obvious way. After conversating with my brother, your pulse was elevated and during the conversation, I watched your pupils dilate. Anthea, your love for my brother is plain as the nose on his face."

Anthea was shell-shocked at this sudden accusation and to her dismay, felt her cheeks getting hot.

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, please, don't get flustered on my account."

"You're finished then? Can I go?" She asked, embarrassed, nervously adjusting her skirt.

"Yes, by all means." As she turned to leave, Sherlock caught her wrist in his hand once again and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "He has a soft spot for dark chocolate, if you were wondering."


End file.
